


Along The Wire

by R_Cookie



Category: X-Men - All Media Types, X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: Angst, Dark, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, slight AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-07-31
Updated: 2011-08-02
Packaged: 2017-10-22 01:09:17
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 11,215
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/232005
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/R_Cookie/pseuds/R_Cookie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Not the author who first called dibs on this <a href="http://1stclass-kink.livejournal.com/806.html?thread=149030#t149030">prompt</a> on the meme at LJ but this is my take on it.</p><p>"Correspondence:<br/>–noun<br/>1.<br/>communication by exchange of letters."</p><p>It has become the only way to speak to each other.</p><p>Update: Epilogue is up. The story is complete.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Not the author who first called dibs on this [prompt](http://1stclass-kink.livejournal.com/806.html?thread=149030#t149030) on the meme at LJ but this is my take on it.
> 
> "Correspondence:  
> –noun  
> 1.  
> communication by exchange of letters."
> 
> It has become the only way to speak to each other.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was done for the prompt on LJ. I've pretty much turned it AU by giving it a whole new course and i apologise if it's terribly OOC or what-have-you. Know that it was for catharsis... Exams do funny things to one's head and I needed an outlet. Nonetheless, I hope you enjoy it. Please excuse errors for now. They will be sifted out soon enough. Cheers

It was never meant to be sent. The paper had yellowed from negligence, the simple line scratched over a hundred times – written, struck out, then written again. There was pride and there was obstinacy, and he knew how fine a line he had been treading.

The slip of paper was picked up by the shape-shifter who glanced at it before pocketing it. For the first time in months since _that_ day, honey colored eyes had softened.

 

xxx

 

Charles wheels himself regally into the empty space deliberately void of its usual chair, then primly removes his gloves to set atop the table.

“Raven,” he greets cheerfully. If his voice is somewhat coarse and his smile not as wide as she remembers, she says nothing.

“Hullo, Charles.” There is no pretense, not from her. In this setting, they’re siblings again and neither cares to break this fragile luxury. “I ordered Darjeeling for you while waiting.”

Her brother grins, and the familiarity of the action tugs at her.

“Our usual scones, then?” Charles alreadyhas his hand in the air. The maître d' instantly recognizes his two regulars – the odd couple who never fails to show up every Sunday, rain or shine. The man gives Charles a smile and strides off to the kitchen.

“Good man. Memorized our order,” her brother remarks lightly.

“I think it’d be difficult not to know. We’re here every week, Charles. With the same order,” Raven answers dryly.

“Well, yes, I suppose that’s true.” The little laugh, and life that suddenly flashes in those blue eyes fills her with relief. He seems a lot better from the first time they’d begun this routine.

“Ah. I’ve never mentioned it but… thank you, Raven. For always coming out here.”

“I’d miss your stupid nagging if I didn’t.”

Charles shoots her his version of a withering look. It is a pitiful attempt.

Their mindless chatter floats through the hours until at last, the sun begins to set and Charles is due back at the mansion. As always, Raven slips out of her seat and pushes the wheelchair wordlessly to the side of the road where Alex would pick her brother from. And Charles allows her to do so. Then, as it’s become, Raven drops to a crouch and kisses his cheek sweetly, and it is filled with promise for the next week. Like clockwork.

Charles is thus puzzled when Raven merely squeezes his hand and turns it palm-up. He watches her rummage through her trench coat’s pocket before something small is placed in his hand. She wraps the fingers close with her own and darts forward to peck his cheek. Raven is back on her feet and walking away faster than Charles is able to process all of this.

“Wait!” his holler is too late and her figure disappears past a corner. Confused, he unfurls his fist and for a long moment, simply stares at the tiny piece of folded parchment.

He’s so absorbed that the horn from the car quite nearly gives him a heartattack– which would have been most unfortunate for he does dearly wish to read the contents of the letter. Alex apologizes and hastily helps the professor into the old Mustang. He gives up on getting an answer as to why the man had been so distracted after his words fall on deaf ears.

Alex worries.

In the privacy of the old study now cordoned off from everyone in the ~~house~~ school, Charles carefully, reverently unfolds the small piece of paper. The mess that meets his eyes at first glance throws his heart into a race. Blinking rapidly, he tries to decipher something, anything.

Then he sees it. In the familiar cursive that makes Charles forget to breathe, a single legible line. Two simple words.

The world crashes down on him and Charles’ vision blurs uncontrollably.

 

> _~~I’m sorry~~ ~~I am~~ ~~gott~~ ~~I’m sorry~~ ~~I’m sorry~~ ~~forgi -~~ _
> 
> _I'm sorry._

 

xxx

  
Raven waits patiently at their café, and if she’s taken to scaring little screaming children to pass the time, nobody knows but her victims. It’s most entertaining.

She worries about Charles, wonders if perhaps she should not have passed on the unintended message (Magneto seemed unusually uptight that week). She knows her brother, knows it’s an evasive answer if he tells her he’s fine. It is a double-edged sword, but Raven thinks it would’ve given her brother more hope than harm.

The world thinks Charles infallible. But being the most powerful telepath to walk the Earth bears no correlation to the fragility of his being.

And Raven is painfully aware of just how strained her brother already is.

“Raven,” the voice brings her attention back and she smiles prettily. Charles seems startled but it takes less than a fraction of a second for him to grace her with a brilliant smile of his own.

The entire time he speaks to her, laughing, chiding – free for all the world like nothing’s changed, Charles agonizes over how best to give her his reply. Charles doesn’t wish to make her feel like a messenger, but he clings onto the hope of exchanges with a burning optimism.

Eternal, inexplicable gratitude.

That is all he thinks when Raven holds out her hand without a prompt at their usual goodbye. There is a softness to her golden eyes and a sad smile toying on her lips that makes Charles throw himself into the task of summoning courage. With slightly trembling hands, he grasps his reply and extends it to his sister.

And so it begins.

 

xxx

 

>   
> _There is little to forgive in an act without intent.  
>  I’m used to it now, Erik._
> 
> _Charles_
> 
>  

 

xxx

  
Magneto glares at his second in command, then at the slip of paper placed on his desk. It hadn’t taken long for him to piece things together.

“I’d apologize for acting without your knowledge, but you _want_ this. I know you do,” is the quiet explanation. The blue skinned woman excuses herself from the study, closing the door softly behind her.

Magneto doesn’t succumb to the note’s fucking siren call till the fourth day.

 

xxx

 

>   
> _What makes you think I speak of your legs?_
> 
> _E._

 

\---

 

> _Dear Erik,_
> 
> _What else would you apologize for?_
> 
> _Charles_

 

\---

 

> _Charles,_
> 
> _For disagreeing, mayhap?_
> 
> _E._

 

\---

 

> _Dear Erik,_
> 
> _Your pride would not have you apologize for your beliefs.  
>  Nor would I._
> 
> _Charles_

 

\---

 

> _Charles,_
> 
> _Raven tells me you’re well. I would have thought you against lying._
> 
> _E_

 

\---

 

> _Dear Erik,_
> 
> _I hadn’t expected you to know of our meetings. Thank you, for letting me see her. And it isn’t a lie, and yes, I do not condone lying.  
>  I’m well enough._
> 
> _Charles_

 

\---

 

> _Charles,_
> 
> _A half-truth is akin to a lie. You thought so once. Has that changed? I hardly own Mystique; she belongs to no one but perhaps herself. I trust her discretion._
> 
> _How are the children? Alex and Sean seem to have set aside their little squabbles._
> 
> _E._
> 
>  

\---

 

> _Dear Erik,_
> 
> _There is a fine distinction, nothing’s changed._
> 
> _You’ve seen them with your own eyes, Erik. I do not know if ~~this~~ such questions are entirely appropriate. But everyone is well, thank you._
> 
> _Charles_

 

\---

 

> _Charles,_
> 
> _Then it is a fine line of distinction you walk, my friend. These letters are kept separate from the world outside, this I promise you.  
>  Nothing’s changed._
> 
> _E._

 

\---

 

> _Dear Erik,_
> 
> _Everything’s changed._
> 
> _In that case, I apparently talk about you so much, the children have taken to asking the older ones who ‘Erik Lehnsherr’ is. Hank tells me that references of you pop up much too often. Not in those words, mind._
> 
> _The discomfort is a permanent fixture in their heads._
> 
> _Charles_

 

\---

 

> _Charles,_
> 
> _In these exchanges, how ~~has~~ should anything have changed? There is always a choice._
> 
> _You speak of me?_
> 
> _E._

 

\---

 

> _Dear Erik,_
> 
> _You’re no longer here. I cannot hear you, cannot touch you. You’ve left. Everything’s changed. There is no choice. Do not tell me that I could follow you. It cannot even be a consideration._
> 
> _And I ~~cannot~~ ~~will not~~ cannot bear this pretense any longer. You were never one for pleasantries, don’t start now. Not on my account._
> 
> _Yes, I speak of you. It’s a subconscious slip. A reference, an anecdote. ~~  
> I have no~~ ~~ability to~~ ~~you~~ ~~bugger~~_
> 
> _Charles_

 

xxx

 

The years pass and Mystique still plays along with the two leaders of her world. She does not have it in her to begrudge either the only connection grounding them.

But for all that it is working, she cannot help but notice how it’s slowly killing her brother. Those replies entrusted to her are like the morphine injections to an addict and Charles is if nothing, severely addicted to their correspondence.

Charles realizes just how much of a hole he’s dug for himself. He knows he’s too far in now. He’s been kidding himself all this time – it’s never enough. The words; he can tell himself that it’s sufficient to imagine it’s _his_ voice that reads them, but it’s a lie. Charles is the master of the human mind, it ought to be effortless to convince himself of anything. So he repeats the notion over and over in his head, ‘it’s enough’, and sometimes, he’s successful.

 

xxx

 

> _Dear Erik,_
> 
> _~~The children~~ I saw what happened. ~~I~~ God, Erik. ~~I~~ Thank you, for protecting ~~Ra~~ Mystique ~~but~~.  
>  Damn this, Erik, she told me it’s serious.  
>  Alex never went in with the intention to kill. ~~He~~ I’ve seen it, his mind was screaming it.  
>  Please, please let me in. Erik, I’m begging you.  
>  Let me in.  
>  I need to know you’re alright._
> 
> _Charles_

 

(It is a month before Mystique carries a reply)

 

> _Charles,_
> 
> _The brat still needs control, then. Mystique has a flair for embellishments. You ought to know that. I’ll be fine.  
>  Your concern is ~~touching~~ appreciated, but unnecessary.  
>  No need to tug your hair out just yet._
> 
> _E._

 

\---

 

> _What’s wrong?_
> 
> _E._

 

xxx

 

Charles is more subdued now and it reminds her of the time when they’d first begun this. The incident still fresh in their minds. It worries her tremendously; he’d been doing so well.

When her outstretched palm is left empty and ignored for weeks, alarm bells set off in her head.

But she will not remark upon it.

 

xxx

 

> _Charles,_
> 
> _Mystique believes you’re hiding something. She’s worried for you.  
>  Talk to me._
> 
> _E._

 

xxx

 

Raven is incredibly perplexed to find their usual spot empty despite arriving marginally late. She seats herself warily and nearly starts violently at the abrupt appearance of the maître d'. Instead, she smiles politely up at him and the elderly man returns it in kind. Smoothly, he removes a letter from his silver tray and places it on her table.

Raven stares at it.

“A… Mister _Summers_ dropped it off for you, Miss.” Her senses sharpen and Mystique gives her thanks, ghosting fingers over the neat, crisp envelope. She frowns and gives Charles another thirty minutes.

Her brother never shows up.

 

xxx

 

> _Mister Lehnsherr_
> 
> _I’m afraid the Professor will be incapacitated for a time. He apologizes._
> 
> _Hank McCoy_

 

xxx

 

Another week passes, then a month and still Mystique refuses to give up her efforts. At the start, worry and frustration had fused, what with being repeatedly stood up and for so shoddy a reason. But Raven remembers how well she knows Charles and the irritation dissipated with haste as concern took dominance above anything else.

Ergo, on the off chance that she might see him, Mystique spends her free time at the café. Waiting.

“Has the man that dropped off the letter ever showed up again?” she asks the maître d' one Sunday.

The mask of schooled manners cracks and the old man grants a kind smile. “Never stays for long, Miss. But he does come around on Tuesday mornings to pick up his usual.”

 

xxx

 

Alex saunters to the café, his mind still fogged with sleep, but there were _fussy_ people back home who threw bigger morning fits than he did at the absence of croissants on Tuesdays.

In his state, he doesn’t notice a smartly dressed blonde rise from her table to trail him to the counter, nor the familiar, cold, predatory gaze of the only other patron sipping coffee at the bar.

“Alex.” The voice flashes goosebumps over his skin. The man whips his head around to come face to face with a tall, strawberry blonde.

“Mystique,” he tries to be calm. It is then that he does take note of the lean, regal form making his way over to them with a dangerous grace that could only belong to one person.

“Magneto… well, _fuck_ ,” Alex hisses, unabashed.

“Charming, Alex,” the baritone remarks dryly, and it is all too crazy and strange – Alex has forgotten context and he can but remember that cold voice barking orders or striking fear in their numerous clashes. Having them both here and now amidst _normal_ humans; it sets his teeth on edge.

Alex ignores them and curses rapidly under his breath. Mystique just discerns something very violent involving Hank and a myriad of things that could shove up his –

“We want no fight, boy. Only answers.” The impatience in Magneto’s voice is poorly concealed.

“What?”

Mystique rolls her eyes. “Don’t be a prat, Alex. You know what we want. I don’t care what my idiotic brother has told you, I – We want to know what stupid thing he’s gotten himself into _this_ time.”

There is an unmistakable flicker of protectiveness and bristling at the insult and it quirks the corners of her lips.

“I was sworn not to say a word. Especially to you two.”

“Any particular reason why? – ”

“I’m worried.”

Alex fairly gapes at Magneto. And beneath the helmet (On hindsight, he has no idea how he could have overlooked the man as he’d walked in), solemn mercury-green eyes do not change at the sudden burst of derisive laughter.

“You’re worried? _You’re worried? Bloody fucking_ -,” Alex is glaring. “What _right_ when you -”

“Alex –”

“You _know_ – The Prof hasn’t gotten himself into anything. No, _you two_ are the fucking reason; you both _started_ this fucking mess!”

Something sparks in those normally shuttered eyes. Mystique clenches her fist, tense at the outburst.

“So don’t give me that fucking crap about being worried or thinking he’s a petulant child who’s done something wrong.”

Of all the scenarios Mystique’s run through in her head, she hadn’t been expecting this. Or the calm, detached voice that asks the next question.

“What. Exactly. Is. Wrong?” Magneto continues, as if he hasn’t just been blamed and cussed at like a sailor.

Alex is disgruntled and a second from walking away, spectacle be damned, care for his own personal safety (there is metal _everywhere_ ) thrown out the window.

“Answer me.”

 

xxx

 

> _Charles,_
> 
> _I have forced the truth from your bloody martyr. ~~How could you~~ ~~You know I care~~ ~~Verdammt~~. I will not stop writing. You will rise again and I will be waiting._
> 
> _E._

 

\---

 

> _Mister Lehnsherr,_
> 
> _On the grounds of the Professor, we hope for a truce. We ~~cannot~~ are at a loss._
> 
> _Noon, Sunday the twenty-eighth._
> 
> _Hank McCoy_

 

xxx

 

The children playing in the field just beyond the main door abruptly halt when a strange humming fills the air; they realize anything remotely metallic has begun vibrating faintly. The air around them feels thick and repressive, tension pouring out from an unknown source.

That is until they spot the two strangers pulling up at the driveway. One of them is instantly recognizable – blue and lithe with contrasting fiery hair – Mystique. But her companion, they do not know. He’s tall and imposing in his dress shirt and slacks, the black vest snug against him. The hat he wears shields too much of his face.

Pattering footfalls and the children turn to see Sean at the foot of the steps, Alex and Doctor McCoy close behind. They cannot comprehend the expressions on their faces but the tension practically boiling (by now) around them is self-explanatory.

The children have seen the blue woman on the news before and they know they’re the enemy; she’s the right hand ~~man~~ woman of the world’s most feared mutant. But oddly enough, no incidents happen and the five adults disappear back into the mansion.

Unfathomable.

 

xxx

 

“Feeling bold today?” Alex asks curtly, gesturing at the hat. A look passes between Magneto and Mystique but the former chooses to ignore the rudeness.

“Perhaps.”

If Hank is uncomfortable around Mystique (memories had been so carefully locked away), he does his best to act normally. They’re here only for the Professor.

The three men lead the visitors down the hall and to the room in the west wing. The steps they take are almost second nature to Magneto. He still remembers.

After a knock more for formality than anything, Hank leads the way into Charles’ bedroom. Alex motions for Sean to join him outside – crowding the chambers would help nobody. The curtains are pulled to the sides of the large window and sunlight streams in, but the brightness dims at the small figure swathed in pillows.

There is a sharp intake of breath from Mystique while mercury-green eyes harden. Magneto takes a step closer to the edge of the bed, silently taking in the semi-conscious, frail body of the Professor.

“I…I don’t know how we could’ve let it go on for so long. He’s been working himself endlessly, and he never let it show. How exhausted he was, that is. We try to run this place with him, but he still shoulders most of it,” Hank explains quietly. “I tried to stop the Professor but I just can’t remember –”

“He probably made you forget to.” Hank lifts his gaze from the floor to Magneto.

“Y-Yes. We think so, but still –”

“Then there was little you could have done.”

Hank fidgets, an action Mystique links to the nervous, shy boy she’d first known.

“As far as we know, it’s like he’s self-destructing. He can’t keep food down, he’s barely awake, his immune –”

Magneto doesn’t hear the rest, he knows it’s nothing so pathetic. His attention is more importantly drawn to fluttering lashes and pale blue eyes that widen in weak recognition.

“No, he’s lost inside his head. That’s all.” Magneto knows what it’s like, imagines how much worse it must be for one of Charles’ gift. He isn’t immune, he’s felt the despair, the mind-numbing absence and want, the emotions overwhelming and debilitating. But he’s learnt long ago to steel himself, it’s easier to push past it; control it. But Charles has never really had to, and it’s hit him like a bloody train.

“Leave us. I won’t hurt him.”

Sean protests, Alex is strangely quiet and Hank is undecided. It would be illogical to trust the ruddy enemy but –

“Come on,” Alex surprises everyone. “We’ll be right outside anyway.” He looks meaningfully at Magneto, but says no more.

A smirk tugs across Mystique’s face and she lays a hand on the older man’s shoulder. Magneto graces her with a tight smile as the rest shuffle out.

Magneto sets his fedora by the bedside table and almost reverently takes a seat at the edge of the bed. It feels like a physical hit, the memories. The mask shatters and Erik picks up a pale hand in his. He brushes kisses across the knuckles and whispers softly, the name like a benediction.

With residual hesitation, callused fingertips trace a gentle path across too-stark cheekbones to rest at Charles’ temple. Erik lowers himself, touching their foreheads together and he’s thrown into ice. Erik is dragged into a madness of images and sounds, suffocating in its number. Everything blitzes by like strobe lights, his head is pounding when he’s assaulted by emotions so strong he would sooner be bowled over.

It is madness, it is despair and fearexhaustionworrystrainobligationfearwantlosswantloss –

Erik surges past the fog and it’s suddenly white noise. A hollow, empty haven, like a bubble amidst destruction. It is eerily silent.

A person sits alone in a ball, knees to his chest, rocking himself to and fro.

“Charles,” Erik breathes, and it is labored, his own mind struggling under the enormity of the delirium. He watches with bated breath as the thin body turns stiffly around. Everything’s horribly dreary but for the pair of shocked, ocean blue eyes.

And when mercury-green finally meets stunning sapphire, it’s like breaking the surface for air.

 

xxx

 

“He’s been pining for you like a lovesick fool, sugar,” Emma says softly.

The cup of tea is placed before him and Erik has his head buried in his hands. There is a weariness now added to him that makes him seem much older than he really is.

“They think the letters you two meddle with just make things worse. _So close and yet so far_ and all that.” If Mystique is Charles’ secret friend (they ought to be enemies), then Emma is Erik’s. She is neutral ground, slipping in with either side when a situation calls for it.

“You _knew_? How long? Why didn’t you –” The growl dies in his throat.

“A while. An _inkling_ , honey. I don’t always stay there and it isn’t any of my business. I warned him of his health when I’d last had reason to see him. It’s all I could do at the time.”

Grudgingly, Erik knows this. It’s already more than he’d have expected since the woman has no actual reason to care for either of them.

“Em – ”

The slender fingers grasping his cuts him off midway. She isn’t so free with displays of affection. Erik looks at her, weary and confused.

“But for what it’s worth, I wouldn’t stop. Not for this. He _needs_ it as much as you do.”

 

xxx

 

> _Charles,_
> 
> _I couldn’t stay._
> 
> _E._

 

\---

 

> _Dear Erik,_
> 
> _Thank you._
> 
> _Charles._

 

xxx

 

> _Twenty-First July, Nineteen Eighty-Three, Thursday_
> 
> **TENSION MOUNTS AT THIRD WORLD WAR**
> 
> In a meeting earlier this week, leaders from all over the world gathered in Washington to discuss the suddenly real possibility of a world war. Not for territory, not against our own; it is slated to be a fight for humanity as the threat of mutants loom larger.
> 
> Recent years have seen a surge in the incidents set off by the abnormal race of humanoids. Arson, vandalism, and physical assaults of civilians have risen starkly and 90% of these acts have been accrued to mutants. This follows after the abrupt emergence of these dangerous individuals into society over the last two decades. Authorities believe this to have been owed to a terrorist organization known as The Brotherhood. These mutant terrorists have been behind several public disturbances and have been labeled the greatest threat to world security as of the World Summit.
> 
> Individuals or families harboring mutants are encouraged to report to the authorities to seek aid within the coming months. Failure to do so may lead to arrest on the grounds of treason and individuals found involved will be deemed as accomplices.
> 
> Old alliances have been rekindled and new ties forged as the world prepares for the biggest challenge it is likely to face in its lifetime.

 

> _Charles,_
> 
> _There is a war dawning. You cannot be oblivious to it. Not this time. I ask once more, be by my side. We cannot lead two armies apart and hope to win. Many of the young ones aren’t even fully aware of their power and there is little time. The strength of our race depends on us, Charles. We cannot hold this off much longer._
> 
> _I ~~nee~~ want you with me._
> 
> _E._

 

(The article is quite literally ripped from the newspaper and the letter is folded and unfolded, read and ignored, then read again before Charles has the fortitude to answer.)

 

> _Dear Erik,_
> 
> _You asked this of me all those years ago and I am afraid my answer is unchanged._
> 
> _From the moment I saw your ~~beautiful~~ ~~tainted~~ mind, the vehemence of the contradiction between us seemed a mockery. We’re proud, Erik. And it is our folly that it inevitably tears us apart. I cannot fight against my beliefs, Erik, and neither will you._
> 
> _Do not ask this of me. Do not make me deny you._
> 
> _We will walk the frontlines on opposite sides, my friend._
> 
> _But never will I see you as an enemy._
> 
> _I cannot._
> 
> _Charles_

 

xxx

 

“They’ve blown this out of proportion.”

The air is tense for the first time since they started this. Charles calmly replaces the tea cup and steeples his hands.

“It was never our intention for _war_ against the whole world, Charles,” Raven says quietly.

Her brother rubs a hand haggardly across his face, sighing.

“Let’s not talk about this,” he murmurs. “I thought we had an agreement about these meetings.” Something like hurt flickers across the blonde’s face, but Charles is too tired to let himself be bothered by it.

 

xxx

 

> _Dear Erik,_
> 
> _Raven remarked that it was not your intention to instigate war. How have you blinded her, Erik? You share Shaw’s belief – the superiority and triumph of mutants. You ~~would~~ intend to raze the humans to the ground._
> 
> _Charles._

 

xxx

 

It is the calm before the storm. And Raven pushes her brother to the pick-up point for the very last time. Their meeting has been uncharacteristically solemn.

Raven drops to a crouch beside Charles and he can sense how hard she’s struggling to control her emotions. He smiles lovingly at his sister and sweeps away stray tears with the pad of his thumb. Raven sniffles, then looks away. She cannot bear the vulnerability. From the pocket of her favorite coat, she produces a familiar piece of folded parchment sealed with wax.

“How long?”

Charles accepts the missive contemplatively, a small frown marring his still handsome face (Age has mercifully been kind to him).

“For as long as he writes.”

This time, she stays with him till Alex arrives. The man starts at the sight of her, though one look at the siblings is enough to silence any protests. She helps Charles into the car and kisses him on the cheek. As always.

“Goodbye, Raven.”

 

xxx

 

> _Charles,_
> 
> _I have not blinded her._
> 
> _I am not and will not be the Nazis. At least do me the honor of never associating me with them ever again. Extermination or genocide, neither has been my intent. Equality, that is all. To eliminate the prejudice against us. And if violence seems to be the last way to be heard, then so be it._
> 
> _I will not be the first to begin the bloodshed, Charles._
> 
> _If they make the first move, and I assure you, they will, then I will fight. We all will._
> 
> _What you’ve stood for – harmony, integration; diplomacy and time have **failed** , Charles. A war is at your doorstep, need you any other proof of the futility?_
> 
> _Would you rise against your own kind, my friend?_
> 
> _E._

 

xxx

 

A week later, a baby is suffocated to death by her own mother – the infant had been able to breathe underwater. The news goes viral and the public sings praises.

Charles sits in his study, numbly looking out of the window. All the students, his _children_ , are on edge; their fear, their uncertainty at his lack of action is loud. Sean stands by the door, waiting with barely restrained anxiousness. Nobody understands what the Professor is doing.

Charles isn’t entirely sure what it is he is waiting for either, but his instincts scream for him to.

And so he does.

“Prof –” Sean finally snaps, but his words are interrupted by a resounding bang and wisps of smoke. The red-skinned mutant who appears in the middle of the room startles the younger man, but the Professor merely regards this with mild surprise. Before anybody can leap into action, the soothing command echoes in their heads and nobody moves.

Azazel wordlessly presents a simple scrap of parchment and disappears after a curt nod.

Charles knows the content before he even reads the few lines.

 

xxx

 

> _Charles,_
> 
> _As I’ve predicted – they have made their move. The time has come._
> 
> _And now, I will make mine._
> 
> _The war begins, Charles._
> 
> _~~Take care~~ ~~Keep safe~~_
> 
> _Be safe._
> 
> ___E._  
> 

 

xxx

 

The Central Intelligence Agency receives a letter addressed to one Moira MacTaggert, head of the research and investigations program on the ‘supernatural’. She recognizes the name but for the life of her, is unable to drag up any memories of the sender.

Her instincts have rarely failed her all these years; she agrees to the time and place.

One look at the man in the wheelchair and Moira is hit by a sudden wave of nostalgia.

“Hello, Moira.” She remembers the wan smile to be boyish once.

 

xxx

 

The Forest of Dean is desecrated by fire and bodies are strewn across the battlefield in pieces and splashes of red. To the commanders, it is more than apparent the extent to which they are overpowered.

Strategies need to change.

 

xxx

 

Charles has yet to see Erik from the eyes of his men in the two weeks that have passed. But Charles doesn’t believe his absence will continue for long; unlike Charles, Erik has little reason to be hiding and giving orders from safety. The United Forces have suffered an astonishing number of fatalities in the fourteen days alone but Charles has glimpsed their minds – they are merely stalling for time. He can feel the excitement of their strategists, knows they think they are fast approaching a breakthrough.

He thinks Erik would’ve have laughed if he'd known.

He has done what he can to help, sending in the X-Men for rescue missions or to aid groups that have been severely outnumbered. The rules he sets are simple – kill only in the most desperate of situations and to play the defensive at all other times.

Charles thinks of his efforts as a cushion, to alleviate what would otherwise be catastrophic for the humans. He isn’t quite for any side per se – all he wishes is to minimize the effects of this war.

 

xxx

 

 _Charles._ The voice is clear in his subconscious. It registers as another telepath.

 _Emma?_ He is startled to see the slender form of the White Queen materialize in his dream. _What are you –_

_He asked for a favor._

Blue eyes widen. _Oh. Oh… I suppose it isn’t that surprising that you’ve chosen sides now._

Her smile is indulgent. _No, not that surprising at all, Professor._

_A favor, you say?_

She is serious now, though there is a trace of _something_ that softens her eyes.

 _The letters, Charles._ An elegant hand is raised to staunch the questions. _They’ve been a well-known secret to his inner circle for some time now._ Charles’ head is tilted up by gentle fingers. _Location._

The man blinks, uncomprehending.

_Azazel will leave them at a particular area of the estate and I will relay images of it to you. Should you reply, place your letter at the original location and inform me._

Charles swallows the lump in his throat.

_I…I, erm. Thank you, Emma._

The White Queen smiles, _Back to sleep now, sugar._

 

xxx

 

> _Dear Erik,_
> 
> _As a boy, I’d been fascinated over war stories. heroism, good over evil, gore and violence. It’s what **made** a boy, it’d seemed. Everything black and white._
> 
> _I had a war veteran for a professor once, in school. And I’d thought it awfully clever to live his memories, experience war for myself._
> 
> _Curiosity never quite killed the cat. It mutilated it, then ate it raw._
> 
> _For several days, I was lost in gunfire and blood, too overwhelmed to wrench myself out. People thought I’d had a breakdown._
> 
> _And now, I’m in the fray, in the middle of a living nightmare. There’s no escape, no waking up. Everyday, I rise to the sounds of screams and the smell of gunpowder as if it were I and not Alex, or Sean or Scott who was experiencing it._
> 
> _Everyday, I anxiously search for your presence through their eyes and there is only relief when you aren’t there._
> 
> _Be safe,_
> 
> ___Charles_  
> 

 

\---

 

> _Charles,_
> 
> _I do recall the stricken eyes after we were hauled back onboard that first night. I imagine it was a trigger, when you went digging through my head._
> 
> _It is tactless, perhaps, but there are times that I’m glad you’re unable to physically be at the frontlines. I needn’t see you on the battlefield, needn’t fight you._
> 
> _You’ve trained the children well, Charles. Their determination is admirable, if misguided._
> 
> _E._
> 
>  

 

xxx

 

The young ones remain at the mansion with Charles and he’s thankful for the distraction. He can feel fear emanating from them, can sense their longing to make a stand too, but Charles directs them elsewhere. He continues with their lessons, and amidst the grumbling, a sense of normalcy settles in.

It is exhausting, but Charles always has his mind split three ways. And some days, it is difficult to keep the channels separate.

If the children note the unusually long pauses the Professor takes midsentence during lectures, they make no mention of them.

 

xxx

 

> _Dearest Erik,_
> 
> _I would give so much to walk again. To see you face to face, even if on the battlefield._
> 
> _That day on the beach, ~~would~~ if you could have changed anything, what would it have been?_
> 
> _I regret not begging you to stay, Erik. I regret being in line of the bullet, of being unable to calm you. I would have chosen my words better, would never have said what I had. Would never have blamed you._
> 
> _Be safe,_
> 
> _Charles_  
> 

 

\---

 

> _Charles,_
> 
> _If I could go back, I would have told you how I felt. If I could go back, I would have ended that girl’s life before anything might harm you. If I could go back, I would have listened, had you but asked._
> 
> _I would have held on more tightly._
> 
> _I would give anything to return your legs to you. ~~I would have and I’m sorry~~ ~~You once told me~~_
> 
> _E._

 

\---

 

> _Dear Erik,_
> 
> _I meant what I said. But if it will soothe you, you have my forgiveness. You’ve always had it._
> 
> _Charles_

 

xxx

 

“Why do we hide _here_ , Professor? It’s only a matter of time before they find us,” young Jean Grey asks. She’s only been able to pick up superficial emotions lately – the Professor has taken to shielding his thoughts very strictly.

“No, Jean. They will not. You’re all safe here,” the man reassures, wiggling his fingers near his temple.

The teenager tries to derive comfort from the genial smile.

 

xxx

 

Night falls and the guard on duty steps out of the shadows. He takes the usual circuit about the campsite, then waits by the outskirts. The other guard on watch emerges and they exchange a nod of acknowledgement.

There are but the chirps of insects that dwell in the night.

The guard crumples to the ground before he even registers the gleam of the blade in the moonlight. The dagger is wiped like the blood of the human unclean. A second circuit is made, but this time, the men standing watch outside the commander’s tent do not see the guard again – it is as if he’s vanished into thin air. Puzzled, one of them strides around to where the guard was last sighted. Then he hears a muffled groan followed by a thump. Panicking, the man darts back, only to be met with the dead body of his partner. From within the tent, he hears the wet sound of gasping breath. He pushes past the flap, and sees golden eyes that flicker in the dying candlelight.

He notices the splatters on the guard’s face before the dagger lodges itself in his neck. .

 

xxx

 

> _Dear Erik,_
> 
> _Exhaustion is creeping up on me. It is difficult to concentrate on so many areas, and I’m no longer as young as I once was, I suppose. I saw you today, and it hurt more than I could have ever imagined. I thought I would be happy, at least the part of me that wasn’t worrying. But there is nothing that can compare to the emptiness of seeing, but being unable to feel you. It’s as if you’re an illusion, a stark void in the hundreds of minds around you._
> 
> _And I have never regretted telepathy more than I had then._
> 
> _That one time you removed your helmet to pull me out of the mess in my head, it was like everything was perfect again._
> 
> _It’s like a drug._
> 
> _My lifeline._
> 
> _I want this war to end, Erik._
> 
> _I long to see you, to escape with you to somewhere no one will find us._
> 
> _~~I miss you~~ Come back to me. Please._
> 
> _Charles._

 

xxx

 

The war has persisted for far longer than they had expected, and it would appear that both sides have reached an impasse. There are mountains of dead on both sides, exhaustion rapidly catching up with the mortality of their bodies and things will only worsen the longer the standstill carries on.

The battles have seen the lands of America, and much of Europe. But if there is to be a final stand, then Poland will see it fought.

Auschwitz. Krakow. Where it started and where it shall end – the twisted humor of fate is not lost on him. .

 

xxx

 

The employment of nuclear power, of turning this into a nuclear war, was never a consideration. A fleeting thought, perhaps, but never an actual consideration. There would be too much to lose. Too unpredictable.

Until now.

The votes in the United Forces are rather clear, but protocol dictates that unless the mutants continue their crusade, the deployment of nuclear arms cannot be sanctioned.

“They will not surrender, we _know_ this!”

“Their existence will always be a threat unless they are exterminated.”

“Or perhaps contained.”

Colonel William Stryker has been unusually quiet thus far, content to sit back and observe the proceedings. But he has a plan and he knows it will work just as he so desires.

“ _Gentlemen_ , I do believe there is a way to move things along more swiftly.”

With every stage that is revealed, Moira feels more horrified. _Nobody_ can possibly see the justice in this –

“The telepath will not release the location of his headquarters. Besides, he could well be listening in on us as we speak!”

The colonel’s eyes land on the only female in the board, “Oh, the location will not be a problem.”

“The Professor has been _helping_ us!” Moira barely keeps from shouting. “You would turn on him _now_?”

“He’s a mutant.”

The silence of the room that follows the simple sentence is judgmental, as if the reason alone ought to be enough to justify betrayal, daring her to think otherwise.

“I will not say a word. Over my _dead_ body.”

“Now, now. That won’t be _necessary_ , my dear.”

 

xxx

 

It happens a day after the meeting.

Charles is up, hunched over his desk and though he is weary and nursing a headache, he cannot rest till he sees it through. His fingers fiddle with the fountain pen and he skims over the words curved on the parchment.

The clock in the room chimes twelve times, but he doesn’t hear it – his pen is flying across the paper now.

An abrupt disturbance in the fields and the hand pauses. Suspicion flares as he makes a sweep of the estate with his mind; he resumes his writing. In the mask he’s placed around the vast plot of land, he finds a crack. The explosion shakes the mansion and Charles starts badly. The word he was in the process of penning is cut short and scrawled. Hastily, he folds the letter and locks it in the drawer, simultaneously rousing the children.

Jean hurtles through the doors and the panic in her eyes shines bright. Heedlessly, she heads for his wheelchair and he’s issuing orders.

He will do what he can to protect them, buy them time – they’ve gone through this plan a million times. He tells himself that they’ll be alright.

At the landing, he freezes the men just barreling in, and forces Jean to flee for the hidden passages. Charles focuses on her long enough to know she’s found it before his control is blasted aside by a younger, fresher mind.

_Another telepath._

 

xxx

 

“Erik!” The hysterical shout is followed closely by the frazzled presence of the White Queen.

Bolting out of the sleeping roll the moment his name escaped her lips, Magneto wearily eyes her rude intrusion. “They have him. They _have him!_ ” Erik frowns.

“You’ll need to be a bit more –” He isn’t quite alert enough to know what she’s yammering about, but his instincts throw a blizzard in his gut.

“They. Have. Charles, Erik.” He’s on his feet, and striding to the meeting room (they’ve commandeered an abandoned school) in a heartbeat, uncaring about his haphazard state of dress.

“How –”

“He sent me a barrage of images, I didn’t even know what the hell they were supposed to mean at first. They did something to that woman you boys worked with, sugar, they forced the location of the school from her.”

The metal legs of the table creak loudly.

“Charles has always shielded the humans’ plans from me and I thought it would change now that he’s their _prisoner_ but I still can’t get a read on them.”

Magneto is fairly certain that if it wasn’t for Mystique’s sudden sprint into the room, every metallic object would have folded in on itself.

“How the _hell_ do they have him? Why the fuck are they betraying him?”

The White Queen runs a shaky hand through her blonde hair. “I think they have another mutant with them and this person is a telepath.”

 

xxx

 

“Rally the Inner Alliance, we’ll need Azazel especially.” Mystique frowns but obeys immediately.

“What are you doing, Erik?”

“They’ll be here soon. We’ll need him to take them to the bunkers.” Emma looks at him like he’s mad.

“The _children_ , Emma. Keep up.”

“ _You’re_ his back up plan?”

“Where else would they go? They’re one of us, regardless. We offer them sanctuary.”

“He is the – he sided with them,” Emma says in disbelief; she has no actual animosity towards Charles, has quite the soft spot for him actually, but she asks out of principle. A part of her already knows Magneto’s answer, it wouldn’t have taken telepathy to figure it out.

“He has never been the enemy.”

 

xxx

 

Two days later, Riptide feels his mind pillaged ruthlessly and he sees traces of Magneto’s partner (or whatever they are) before he loses control. His body acts on its own accord and a quarter of Krakow is torn to rubble.

Azazel finds him catatonic moments after.

Emma sends a silent apology, then infiltrates Janos’ head to pick up any trails. It takes her a draining twelve hours to find them – Charles and the other – all the while, more of The Brotherhood plunges into madness.

Magneto has his hands on his helmet, ready to talk to Charles through Emma when slender fingers wrap around his wrist. The glittering form of the White Queen greets him, “No, sugar. This is the one time you ought to keep it on.”

Things escalate when the lack of retaliation persists. The children are targeted, expressly, and they are too young to withstand the assault. More than a third of the death count that had taken the humans a year to achieve is accomplished this time in a week. By then, there is only consuming rage and Magneto does not hesitate to kill every single prisoner in their hold.

It is the sign the humans have been waiting for.

 

xxx

 

The final stand.

The day is every bit as ominous as one expects it to be. Though, perhaps Ororo is responsible for it more than anything. The X-Men have made their decision after being contacted by the White Queen. They will fight only to protect the little ones. But the distinction is insignificant now – there are only two sides and Magneto is satisfied to see every mutant banded together.

Storm clouds roll overhead and thunder claps as the infantry and artillery ready themselves across the plains.

Magneto will see every one of them destroyed in order to retrieve Charles.

The humans do not yet know the full extent of his powers.

 

xxx

 

Emma struggles to ward off Charles’ attempts on their own race and it is impossibly difficult to go against the most powerful telepath in the world. She tears a part of her concentration away (the little she can afford) and searches the minds of the enemy.

There is a slit in the protection of the unknown telepath and Emma leaps at it.

She sees it then, the control room, the anxious leaders and singular focus. A command is finally approved and her people are left with fifteen minutes.

Magneto hears the White Queen’s frantic call and finishes his crushing of the Howitzers.

“I’m going to fight the other person, Erik. And then you’re going to get to Charles. He, no _we_ , have fifteen minutes to hold off the nuclear attack.”

 

xxx

 

Charles hears a loud buzzing in his head, and it fades into static as Cerebro begins to spark. It hurts and he makes to remove the headpiece. But the little boy stills him. Something in Charles dislikes the sadness in the child’s eyes, so he tells himself that he can endure a little longer.

 _Charles. Francis. Xavier_ , a woman hisses angrily. He whips his head around, utterly startled at the newcomer and finds himself looking at a very frustrated Emma Frost. Her normally pristine attire is traded for diamond and he cannot fathom why; he means her no harm. Charles thinks he must be very tired too, to begin hallucinating to this level.

 _Go away_ , he hears the child warn. Emma snarls and in her form, there is little that can stand in her way. Particularly when fuelled by rage – Charles cannot really recall how he knows this.

 _If you don’t back off, I’m going to make you, sweetie._ The iciness in her voice belies the power she’s lacing into her words.

_Don’t disturb our –_

_Oh for god’s sake._ That is the mutter Charles hears before the sight of the little boy being strangled is all he sees. Strangely, the boy simply disappears. He supposes that anything can happen in dreams.

Cerebro continues to hum in his ears. He is vaguely aware of the sudden return of screaming in his head just as Emma winces.

The White Queen kneels by him and throws the headpiece aside. It is quiet and Charles doesn’t move.

 _Charles, you have to wake up,_ she whispers anxiously. _You have less than ten minutes to call off their attack. I’m not strong enough to do that, sugar._ The Professor blinks and he wonders to himself how twisted his dreams have managed to become. _Charl -_ The White Queen is abruptly distracted and he makes to ask if she’s alright, when he sees him.

 _I hate my dreams. This is just cruel,_ Charles mutters. Erik takes Emma’s place and cups his face and Charles never wants to leave.

 _This isn’t a dream. We’re in your head, my friend._ Calloused fingers rub gently against his cheekbones; Charles closes his eyes. _Charles, there isn’t time. Snap out of this._

_You both keep saying that. What do you mean?_

_They’ve activated the nuclear weapons. They need to be disarmed before they can leave the base._

Blue eyes fly open.

_S-stop this nonsense._

_Charles, look at me. Listen. To. Me. With Cerebro or whatever it is they have, stop them._ Erik is shaking him gently by the shoulders.

_I –_

_Just wake up and you’ll **see**._

_Erik,_ Charles’ voice breaks. The trained calm wavers on the other man’s face and the shark-like smile Charles adores so much is pained.

 _Mein liebling,_ Strong hands grasp his own. _Help us._

 

xxx

 

Charles blinks rapidly and he takes in the scene before him. There is a boy slumped in a wheelchair opposite him and wires are attached to his nape. He himself feels a sting and he remembers everything – the helplessness, the loss of control over his own mind, William Stryker – the children.

For once, he ignores his compunctions and cripples his captors. Fumbling with the straps, he tries to search for that mind he thought he’d finally been able to touch.

 _Erik. ERIK._ The sensation hits him so hard that Charles sobs in relief. His power fans out and he searches some more for his students, he needs to know they’re safe.

_They have my protection. Charles, this will all be academic if you wait any longer._

Charles nods at no one, there is no one conscious to see it. He reaches once more for the crude replica of Cerebro and immerses himself in the raw power. He locates a mind easily enough, the barrier by the other telepath is discarded and he can see _everything._ The countdown flashes garishly on the screen and Charles pushes his host’s body forward to slam on the button, deactivating the deployment.

It takes a mere second for all hell to break loose.

Charles thinks he’s known it all along, but simply refused to give up his irrational hope. He thinks he’s known that Erik was right all this time, as he reads the minds of the humans. All he’s done is prolong the inevitable. There is no other alternative but to eliminate the root of their problem.

He’s frozen an entire level of a building before, doing so to the entire world with Cerebro would be manageable. 

 

xxx

 

Erik looks around him, the other mutants are equally puzzled. _I’ve frozen them. I need to know what’s happened, need to make things right._ Emma gives him a wary look.

 _How many?_ He hears in his head, and Erik shuts his eyes, he doesn’t want the guilt on Charles.

 _More than a thousand._ He feels the shock, the despair and the self-loathing.

_It was out of your hands, Charles._

_It doesn’t absolve me of responsibility. If this repeats itself – don’t you see the danger, Erik?_ He fights to think of the right words.

_I’m going to correct this. And then I’m going to solve our problems, my friend._

 

xxx

 

Charles grasps the minds of the hundreds he’s shattered and pieces the fragments together. The amplification of Cerebro presents him with a high that surges through him and he feels invincible. They might not remember much of the war, but their minds are unscathed.

Next, he moves on to the humans and the sheer number of them is staggering. He reads their thoughts and sees only fear and anger and an inconceivable hatred for his people. If he does nothing, the war will continue; if he pauses for a breath, there will simply be more after – there is no turning back.

He knows that there truly is nothing more that can be said or done to let the humans see otherwise. This war has corroded itself into nothing more than evidence that the mutants are too dangerous, too unpredictable.

Too foreign.

Clenching the armrests, Charles steadies himself – he has his job cut out for him.

Putting every human to sleep leaves him panting but he cannot stop. That is merely the prelude. Into the minds of every government official, he plants the idea that this is nothing more than a very elaborate, full-scale military exercise – it fosters global cohesiveness. Charles’ heart hammers against his chest and his arms quiver.

There remains only one last thing. 

 

xxx

 

 _Charles, if you go through with this, you will kill yourself._ Erik thinks frantically.

_It’s the only way. It’s all that I can do._

_What about your beliefs? You’re against invading their minds, Charles._ He feels disgusted saying such things, but it has always been Charles’ oath.

_They were folly. You were right, Erik. All this time. You were right._

“Then I don’t want to be,” Erik whispers.

 _Hush, now._ Something brushes his hand and it's as if it is being gripped. _Stay with me._

A blinding light overwhelms them all and it feels ethereal. Every living person is in stasis, they do not think, they cannot move.

There is only a faint humming from the back of their heads and it grows louder.

 

xxx

 

Mystique sees herself with Charles. They are children again and she remembers the summer sky so vividly.

Alex and Scott remember their mother from before the orphanage and they’ve always thought the memory forgotten.

Hank recalls the enormity of acceptance he finds in Raven and he wants nothing more than to have it again.

Emma sees flashes of a desk in a study she remembers from her visits and in her mind, she hears his voice. And he thanks her.

Erik is in the water and the cold seeps into his bones. He’s running out of air, but the determination burns brighter than that and he will not bend even to his own mortality. He remembers those arms around him, tugging, saving him and he remembers the incredulous liberation at knowing he wasn’t alone.

And his mind hears the same voice he remembers of the water –

_I’m sorry._

 

\------

 

There is a deafening silence. He doesn’t breathe. He doesn’t think he’s capable of it. He cannot feel anything else, there’s only emptiness. A jolting realization that something’s missing. So very final.

When it’d happened the first time, he had seen a gap form in his person, not physical, not tangible, no. But glaring and just _there_. At the time, he had forced the pain and loss away, he still had a direction. There was still a flicker of hope, a comfort even if he should never act upon it.

The world is quiet.

There is only a void. He understands the finality of the situation. Irreversibility. There’s no longer mild relief in entertaining the notion of seeing _his_ face again. There is no longer the possibility of feeling him any longer. Definitive. The wash of numbness is beginning to slip away and everything it has thus far suppressed begins to emerge.

It’s raining. He tells himself it is.

It rolls down the harsh edges of his face. Slowly, torturous, one by one.

Everything that’s held him together snaps and he crumbles to the ground.

He’s torn between weeping, and hysterical laughter. There is only that.

The maddening desire to hurt, to _feel_ anything but the anguish.

It _**hurts**_ so much, he doesn’t want this, doesn’t want this, doesn’t want the pain.

His hands fist in his hair, his head is to the ground, he’s trembling.

He’s sobbing to himself, he’s cursing in all the languages he’s ever known.

It wasn't supposed to end like this.

 

…

 

The silence is too loud in his head.

 

…

 

And Erik screams.

 

\---

\---

\---

 

Every human forgets their hatred, their negativity. Mutants have always been a part of their world. There is nothing to be feared. There is nothing unknown.

xxx

xxx

xxx

 

Before the end, on the morning of the final week, Erik Lehnsherr had written a letter. It was meant to reach Charles Xavier by the evening.

In the drawer of the old mahogany table in the Westchester estate, a carelessly folded parchment was found addressed to Erik Lehnsherr. It is dated to the twenty-first of August – a day before the last week of the war.

Charles will never read the letter that was meant for him.

 

xxx

 

> _My darling Erik,_
> 
> _It feels awfully close to the end now. And I do not know what it’ll hold for the future, for our kind. I do not know if we’ll live to see it._
> 
> _And if we should die, then there is little time left. There would be no other occasion to let you know all that I’ve struggled for so long to contain. It may be foolish and warrant your scorn, but I guess war compels us to do incredibly stupid things._
> 
> _I have never wanted anything as much as I have you. I have never wanted to fight for something as strongly as I would for you._
> 
> _That day, when you realized the potential of your power, when you allowed me to coax that memory from that beautiful mind; I think it was the first time I'd known that I’d fallen irrevocably for you. In that fraction of our history, I’d wanted nothing more than to be by your side forever. But the crisis happened and as much as I loved you, perhaps because of my love for you, I would not be a part of your destruction. I would not stand idly by as you set your self on the path of destruction. Salvation, that was what I’d convinced myself to be. And I’d clung onto the hope that you would return to me._
> 
> _Some of the children think that telepaths are incapable of dreaming. But they couldn’t be more wrong. I do dream, and it is my reprieve._
> 
> _I’ve dreamt of sunlight and dew, of freshly mown grass and the cool caress of rain in spring. I’ve dreamt of your hand in mine and the feeling of our legs as we run. I've dreamt of summer nights and the clouds of the day. I’ve dreamt of autumn and colors and walks, I’ve dreamt of your smile and the warmth of your presence._
> 
> _I’ve seen a future of waking to your voice, a quiet place with endless water and a light that stretches for miles on end._
> 
> _I’ve dreamt of a future we will never have and mourned its impossibility every single day. And for as long as I shall live, I will be sorry that it is so._
> 
> _But we cannot change the past._
> 
> _I’ve always loved you, Erik. It is the one thing in this forsaken world that will never change._
> 
> _~~If there is~~ ~~I would give the~~_
> 
> (The writing changes here and the words lose their clarity.)
> 
> _Do you love me?_
> 
> _Charl –_

 

\---

 

> _Charles,_
> 
> _I could not find sleep. It has not been easy to for a while now. It is barely two in the morning and I sit atop a hill, writing by lamplight. It feels like something you would love._
> 
> _The end is upon us, Charles. Everything will be over soon. I know it. Though, whether I will live to see our success, I cannot tell. But I will die trying._
> 
> _I do not have a way with words, my friend. Not the way that you do. There are, however, certain things that must be said, for if I wait any longer, I fear I will never find the moment or courage to do so again. I ask that you humor me now._
> 
> _In the few years I had as a child before the Second World War, I’d been proud of being different and I’d loved easily as any child would. But things changed with the Third Reich and I learnt that being different wrought nothing but pain, and emotions served no other purpose than as a weakness. And then, for reasons I cannot explain, despite the torture and experiments, it was Schmidt who made me realize that being a mutant was nothing to be ashamed of. It is something he has my eternal gratitude for. He made me see the strength in my mutation, in my **gift** , and the reason why humans are inferior._
> 
> _Even now, I cannot tell if meeting you was the start of my downfall or the best thing that has ever happened to me. You, who preached against my hatred for this world. ‘A mere inversion of your love’, you’d called it. Lord knows where you came up with such an expression._
> 
> _~~In my wil~~ I had never intended for things to go as they had all those years ago on the beach. I had never meant to leave you, never meant to let the humans drive us apart, never meant to have you experience Schmidt’s death. Yes, I know – Emma enlightened me. But it was something I had to do, Charles. You may never accept it, but surely you can understand it._
> 
> _Every morning, I wake to an emptiness and I’ve come to realize that there is nothing I miss more than your quiet presence at the back of my mind. A constant reminder that I am never alone. And I yearn to feel it once more. When all of this is over, Charles, I promise, if it is within my power, I will find you and we will have all the time in the world to make up for the years we’ve lost._
> 
> _The sun is beginning to rise, and I must return to the camp. But Charles, there is a final thing:_
> 
> _That day, I should have told you, and every day after that. And it is my greatest regret that I have never said it enough to you ._
> 
> _I love you._
> 
> _Be safe,_
> 
> _Erik._  
> 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tiny, short epilogue may follow. It's still undecided. If OP ever reads this, I hope he/she likes it. And to you, dear reader, I hope you've enjoyed it too.


	2. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> epilogue.  
> Time has passed and Xavier's School for Gifted Youngsters has been functioning for some years now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i've got a bad feeling about this one but i'll leave it up for now. Happy reading.

_Autumn, 1989_

The leaves have changed and the colors are warm and Westchester is most beautiful this time of year. Students take to the woods in the early mornings and for runs through the estate in the weekends.

The mansion has housed a tight group of children from ages seven to eighteen for a few years now. It was officially declared the first institute for the gifted in 1983. Several other schools have picked up from its lead and have opened in major cities all over the world.  
Xavier's School for Gifted Youngsters was so named after the first headmaster, back when the mansion had still been unregistered. The current headmistress is a kind but stern lady whose age is entirely indiscernible - but there won't be any complaints from the males. Her name is Emma Frost and she possesses two abilities - telepathy and the power to turn herself diamond.

Raven Darkholme, or Mystique, as she forces her students to call her, is like a big sister. She's witty and fiery and has a wicked sense of humor. For formality's sake, she tries to be proper, but everyone knows it's Sean and her who are behind the frequent practical jokes played in the mansion. The children, the young ones, are always fascinated by her shape shifting.

It would seem that in every school, there is the one teacher who can strike fear in the hearts of any student, inherently commanding their attention and obedience - in this institution, that would be Erik Lehnsherr. Mister Lehnsherr is the deputy headmaster and he doesn't raise his voice, doesn't quite get angry but the severity he carries about him is enough to command silence from the students.  


xxx

When a new student enrolls in the school, it is by tradition that he or she be briefed by the seniors. The headmistress sets the rules, but the seniors know all the ropes and gossip. And they are obliged to impart their wisdom.

It goes something like this:

Mister Cassidy is by far the greatest pushover of the teachers and he's amiable and goofy - and one can get away with most anything. The students love him for this.

Mister Summers (the younger Mister Summers) is a certifiable hardass. He takes no nonsense; mess with him and you probably won't make it out of Physical Training.

Doctor McCoy is mostly in the research laboratory outside of lessons. It is most advisable to keep calm and _not freak out_ on the rare occasion that you do see him. (It is, however, understandable that no amount of bumping into him would lessen the surprise. At least at the start). Any jibes at the quiet doctor is met with an _accidental_ hit on the upside of the head by Mystique. The students believe they're together.

Curfews are taken very seriously. Nobody, and _absolutely nobody_ is able to pull any stunts. Not when your headmistress is a telepath. The headmistress knows _all_.

The history, the origin of the school has always been unclear. It is negligence on nobody's part. Very little is disclosed of the institution's history prior to its institutionalization in 1983. If curiosity as to the existence of the old, rustic mansion that was rather evidently once a home did arise... Then great care must be taken in choosing the right person to ask. All the teachers provide answers that feel like a half-truth, like they're rehearsed, coordinated. Mister Lehnsherr is the only one who will meet questions of such a nature with stony silence. The general consensus is that this immediately places you in his black book (stashed away somewhere).

The origins is but one of the many mysteries of the school. It is mostly an unwritten rule, but there are certain rooms in the west wing that will always remain locked and empty. Regardless of the demand for boarding. Cryptic replies of 'it's a study' or just a quick topic switch are all the answers you'll get. It is rumored that the last foolish attempt to break in had been met with Mister Lehnsherr's fury - the only time he is said to have shown such anger.

The twenty-eighth of August is the only day that Mister Lehnsherr will cancel lessons for no apparent reason. Over the years, it has simply become something accepted, and his students do not question it. For the entire day, no one will see or hear from him. And the following morning, he'll stride into class like nothing happened. As if he hadn't merely left a message on the blackboard.

Contrary to the popular belief of the young ones, Mister Lehnsherr is _not_ a werewolf. The Headmistress has dismissed the idea with barely restrained laughter.

Only once has Mystique ever entertained the onslaught of questions regarding Mister Lehnsherr's disappearance. And even then, it was little to go by.

 _'It's an anniversary.'_

Admittedly, the students know next to nothing of Mister Lehnsherr's personal life, but he wears no ring on his finger and no mention of a spouse ever surfaces.  


xxx

It will take the sheer play of chance for a student to be unexpectedly hit by the correlation between the date and that printed in the book - _The History of Genetic Mutation_ by Charles F. Xavier, Ph.D - found in one corner of the library.

The twenty-eighth of August in the year nineteen eighty-three, is the day of the first Headmaster's passing.  


xxx

There is a grave located in the forest around the mansion. It is tucked away in a quiet spot, a beautiful clearing very carefully maintained - it looks somewhat like a description out of a fairy tale. Sunlight streams in past the meshwork of leaves overhead and the brightness bleeds into serenity.

It is typically found only by those who know where to look. The grave isn't declared out of bounds, but the land feels oddly consecrated and it deters further remarks about its existence.

The site is demarcated by a rectangle slab plated in lapis lazuli and it is about the size of a sheet of paper. Upright and adjacent to it is a polished, granite gravestone, the words elegantly carved into it. And in the corner beneath the inscription, a small metal disc lies embedded in the stone. Its surface is worn down with time, but an eagle - an emblem - can be faintly discerned.

There are words, a phrase, painstakingly, lovingly engraved onto the coin and if you looked at it close enough, it reads:  


  
_Ich werde dich immer lieben_   



End file.
